CHAPTER 32
I’ll tell you two things about my job: it’s bloody hard but it’s bloody rewarding.
The evidence: I accidentally have sex with Archie; I almost spin into another dimension trying to hide this fact from Jessie on the drive back to Sydney; my anxiety is so severe I yell at her for putting her foot on the dashboard and getting sweaty toe marks on my windscreen; she yells at me for being an uptight dickhead; we reconcile when ‘All About That Bass’ comes on; we shoulder-shimmy; things begin looking up; I remember that I slept with Archie; anxiety reappears and crescendos as we reach Sydney; I realise that I will have to see him tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day; I get a text from Boss: Surry Hills Public School has been set on fire—you cool to do damage control tonight?
; sweet, sweet relief floods me as I text back Keen!
; I work until midnight, and the next day, in the most giant karmic reward from the universe, a tiny town in North West New South Wales is named as the location for the next Marvel film shoot.
The Premier’s office organises a charter plane to take a bunch of MPs and journalists out there, but Boss and I are ordered to stay ‘on ground’ to deal with the fallout from the fire.
The Premier literally flies Archie out of the city.
This gives me two days of precious breathing space to wargame.
I focus on rigorously upskilling Petria so that by the time Archie is back in town, she can manage our media events while I bunker down in the office to strategise from afar.
Turns out Petria is more unshakeable than I gave her credit for.
Last week, Nancy Miller’s advisor told her the teardrop banners were in the wrong spot for the cameras and she apparently told him to get fucked.
I wouldn’t have sworn at him—he’s generally pretty nice, if a bit hopeless—but it felt like a Mr Miyagi moment, where he realises the Karate Kid is learning the big life lessons.
(And when I saw the media clips that night, with the teardrop banners slightly out of shot, I just had to remind myself that things take time, and not everyone is as obsessive as me, nor have they slept with the nation’s most prolific political journalist and are therefore condemned to steer clear of all media events for the foreseeable future.)
I’ve managed to avoid speaking with Archie for almost two weeks.
He’s texted me once on my work phone, saying only We need to talk, and I responded with a thumbs-up emoji.
This could be perceived as cold, yes, but also: normal.
I send many thumbs-up emojis. Sending a thumbs-up emoji is an indicator that I’m fine.
Of course, I’m not fine. I’m highly stressed.
I’ve never been good with post-hookup interactions.
I don’t know what to say and I can’t play it cool, because I’m a fundamentally uncool person.
I’m clammy and awkward and that’s why I need structure and agendas and clear paragraphs with topic sentences.
Making things worse, Boss also seems to be operating at a heightened level of tension.
After every press conference where Archie peppers him with questions about Nancy Miller, Boss calls me for a long and meandering debrief, which habitually ends in him cursing Archie’s existence.
I have to hmmm and mmm in all the right places, while simultaneously feeling as though I might self-immolate from anxiety.
I cannot have Boss finding out about the festival.
As a stress response, I’ve blocked Archie’s personal number from my phone.
I know it’s a teenage move but humiliation and fear are powerful forces.
Yes, we had great sex, but I’ve got to think of my job.
And also, the eye contact. There was so much of it!
Archie dates all the time; he’s used to a spontaneous night of passion, but I’m not.
I can’t bear the thought of him laughing at how earnest I was. The sounds I made were not PG!
Anyhow. The crux of the matter is: I am a career woman and I love my job and I want to keep it and help Boss win an election. Therefore, I will not be texting Archie on my personal phone. What’s done is done and now I must mitigate the fallout.
★
The glossy sign-in desk in the ABC reception lobby stands before a series of retracting glass doors that flash with green light when they open.
An Authorised Visitor lanyard jostles around my neck as I navigate the wide hallways.
At every turn, a thrill revs through me, temporarily dampening the hum of worry in my chest. I feel like I’m a teenage Swiftie with a backstage pass.
This is a building in which words and opinions can shape public policy.
One good soundbite can transform tomorrow’s headlines, which can set the agenda for the next sessions of parliament.
In these studios, good lighting and fastidious research can bring down governments. They can also resurrect careers.
Today, Boss is filming an episode of News & Views—the nation’s marquee political program.
Boss will sit on a panel with other politicians, thought leaders and heavy-hitters and answer questions from the host and studio audience.
It’ll be filmed today and then broadcast tomorrow evening as if it’s live.
Going on News & Views is a risky move, given the current polls, but if Boss can nail this, and then nail his slot on Lush FM next week, hopefully his results will start improving. All he needs to do is be his charming, intelligent self.
I find Boss already on the studio stage when I walk in. He’s chatting to the unions boss, who he once called ‘the devil in Tarocash’—to his face. When he sees me, he masterfully exits his conversation and ambles over.
‘Have you heard the host has gastro?’ Boss asks.
‘Yuck.’ I swing my head around to check whether I can see bacteria crawling on the walls, but predictably, they’re covered in nothing but blood. (Kidding! But it is amazing how many careers have been killed in this studio.)
‘I’ll find the producer and check who’s subbing in,’ I tell him. I’m trying to quickly calculate whether it will work in our favour if another host steps in, but I suspect not. Generally, ABC journos are distrustful of Boss. I suspect it’s because of his hair.
The green room is connected to the studio via a wide set of double doors that are propped open to enable an efficient flow of foot-traffic. I’m about to stride through when I spot the makeup artist powdering the jawline of the substitute presenter.
There is a slow process where it feels like the image before me is being moulded into plasticine then funnelled along my optic nerve at the speed of a slow-moving sushi train.
Archie is sitting in the green room. ARCHIE is the substitute presenter.
I pinch my arm in case this is a nightmare. ‘Ow!’ I yelp.
Archie’s head jerks up at the sound but I dart back from the doorway before he can spot me. As the skin on my arm flares red, there’s a roaring between my ears. DAMMIT! This is not a dream.
I don’t stop moving until I’ve power walked back to the corridor outside the studio, where I lean against the wall, panting.
What witchcraft has Archie spun to nab this gig?
I mean, yes, he’s probably thirty per cent better than most of the desktop-trained young journos who think belligerence equates to acuity.
Despite being the biggest jock on the beat, he’s never a bully.
Archie is deadly, but only with his fact-finding and narrative sequencing.
Hosting the ABC’s flagship political panel show, though?
I thought there was some prerequisite that your hair had to be at least sixty per cent grey before you could host News & Views.
I wouldn’t have thought he’s old enough to have the wisdom to moderate these kinds of discussions, but he didn’t even look nervous. He looked … good.
The uneasy buzz in my ribcage returns as I tiptoe back into the studio, staying deep in the shadows. At every unexpected sound, I flinch, half-expecting the cameras to turn on me.
Camilla Hatton, did you REALLY sleep with that man?
Did you REALLY expect your boss not to find out?
Do you REALLY think that’s appropriate behaviour considering Minister Harcourt gifted you a job that’s changed your life?
I feel like I’m flying too close to the sun, and I’m about to get burned.
Archie was right: we really do need to talk.